anna kiss

Phone Call

this is me bent over in half-light,

listening.

the message in electric static from the recorder

echoes through the first floor,

the wood resonating the sounds of the voice –

buzz, crackle, digital hiccup,

I hear nothing in the words -

they carry no value,

say nothing,

“I am not here, leave a message,”

and the long beep –

your voice comes through in electronic waves

snow on the television set,

a song,

followed by silence,

and then me – not realizing at all what you’d said –

it is the lost cause, an erased murmur,

and I’ve decided that my tombstone shall be inscribed

with some virtual poetry

like your words unearthed by an answering machine.